img00026.jpgThis evening I went through my warm-weather clothes, paring down my piles and getting rid of stuff that I know I won’t wear again.

This is always a hard process for me. Compulsive shopper plus hoarder equals lots of stuff. Mix in a dollop of optimism (mental illness?) and you’ve got a gigantic pile of “keeper” clothes consisting of items such as a pair of leather pants that still fit but are cut in such a way that by the time they’re back in style I will be way too old for leather pants; A pair of white Tibi shorts I got for nothing at Loehmann’s that are a smidge too small and see-through. Still I imagine I will someday fit into them and not mind that you can see my panties because then I will be thin and nothing at all will bother me; and a gold pleather skirt that I wore to parties in my 30s and now think I may eventually need if I ever decide to be a trophy for Halloween. This is separate from the “Save for my daughters” pile. In the tiny “Donate” pile are things like rain ponchos bought during unexpected downpours and promotional T-shirts advertising margarine substitutes.

There is one item of clothing I  have no problem parting with, however. I was sitting amidst the heaps  when I heard my husband and daughters come in from their day, and got up from my task to go greet them at the door. I grabbed something to put on, a black denim skirt that I wasn’t sure fit. I pulled it on, pausing at an obstruction (my ass) that was a bit of a challenge, but nothing a bunch of hopping up and down couldn’t overcome. Finally, I sucked in my belly and wrestled the zipper up,  and shuffled to the door to greet them. Sasha ran up and hugged me.

“Nice skirt,” my husband said. After almost 8 years he knows to say such things. He was not taught this at the Ivy League college he attended and to which he still sends checks; I had to homeschool him on this.

“Thanks! It fits. Kinda.” I hugged Sasha back, her face at the level of my abdomen. She pulled her head back a few inches and head-butted my belly. Her forehead sprang off it like it was a mini-tramp, and she laughed and did it again. “It’s springy, isn’t it?” I laughed. You have to laugh, right?

“Yeah,” she said, laughing too. “That skirt makes it looks like your vagina is in the back and your tushy is in the front. I can do that with my Barbie.”

The “donate” pile just got a bit bigger.

Who says real women can’t have bodies like Barbie dolls?

Photo by Paul Lipson, my poor husband